


Something base and cringing

by MaplePaizley



Category: Natasha Pierre and the Great Comet of 1812 - Malloy, Voyná i mir | War and Peace - Leo Tolstoy, War and Peace (TV 2016)
Genre: CW: Rape, Canonical Incest, Cw: dubious consent, F/M, Helene and Pierre's marriage is the fucking worst for both of them, Implied/Referenced Cheating, Polyamory, cw: mentions of abuse, some misogyny
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-09
Updated: 2017-08-17
Packaged: 2018-12-13 02:43:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,809
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11750403
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MaplePaizley/pseuds/MaplePaizley
Summary: Hélène had only ever cried twice because of her marriage.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I am heartbroken that Comet is closing, so I decided to bite the bullet and write this idea I've had for a while. Please let me know what you think, comments and kudos make me crazy happy!

Hélène had only ever cried twice because of her marriage.

 

Her wedding night had been the first time she could remember weeping in many years. That ought to have been a troubling sign to begin with, she mused bitterly. She remembered how distant and rapid her engagement had been- she and Pierre had hardly spoken at all. Not that they had ever needed to; as soon as Pierre had inherited his father’s estate, and her father had considered how many houses, jewels, horses and social clout said fortune entailed, he had been spoken for, whether he was aware of it or not.

 

 

_Anatole leaned over her in her bed, eyes dancing merrily as he took in her half-dressed state. He pressed his body against her’s and she arched into his touch, expecting him to kiss her. Anatole looked at her appraisingly and snaked an arm around her waist, flopping down to the mattress unceremoniously, leaving her head to bounce onto his chest._

“ _Papa wants to marry us both off. Me to Andrey Bolkonsky’s little church mouse sister.”_

_Hélène threw her head back and laughed. “Oh she’d suit you perfectly”, she purred, running her fingers through Anatole’s blond hair affectionately. She loved him so much, the certainty he had that nothing would change, that this was a temporary diversion. It was a beautiful fantasy, but one that she had to be careful about indulging. “And for me?”_

_“How would you feel about…Pierre Bezukhov?” Anatole grinned, resting his chin on her shoulder, eyes dancing mischievously._

_Hélène felt her stomach drop to the floor, even as Anatole began to draw some very distracting patterns on her legs with one long finger. “You’re joking.”_

 

 

She had been the first woman that Pierre had ever laid with. He hadn’t hurt her, but his nerves had made him so bumbling and awkward that it had been impossible to close her eyes and pretend he was Anatole. She had been the good bride that everyone had expected her to be: scrunched up her face in mock-pain when he entered her, as if she hadn’t fucked Dolokhov so soon before the ceremony that she was wearing her wedding dress; gave him breathy gasps and moans that were almost ludicrous in their transparency; and allowed him to pull her against his chest and circle her waist with his heavy, suffocating arms.

 

“Hélène”, he had murmured softly into her ear, half conscious. “My wife.”

 

She had grinned for his benefit, knowing that he would feel her rising cheekbones press against his face. “Yes, husband?”

 

“So beautiful”, he whispered. “Can’t believe you’re mine.”

 

She had had to duck her head at that, wrinkling her nose in distaste. The idea that her oaf of a husband was deluded enough to think that they were equals, much less that she was some kind of property, was a depressing prospect.

 

Pierre had kissed the shell of her ear. “Love you, Hélène.”

 

“Yes, darling, go to sleep”, she had sighed, gently stroking his knuckle. He hadn’t spoken to her after that.

 

The heat had been stifling. Her hair was sticking to her face, and she could already feel the layer of sweat building between her and Pierre, effectively gluing them together. He was already asleep: his thick, mucous-filled snores were reverberating through her chest from being so tightly pressed against him, and Hélène, for the first time, felt truly trapped. She had always known that this was her father’s plan: she was popular and beautiful, there was no reason to think that Vasili would waste any time trying to find a suitably wealthy husband for her. And Pierre Bezukhov had been exactly what he had been looking for. Pierre was fabulously rich, even if his name didn’t carry the same kind of weight as Kuragin. Furthermore, he was docile and clueless, and far too easy to manipulate for his own good. Marrying Pierre had been an expectation that was easy to meet. It had been simple enough to shed Princess Kuragina and become Countess Bezukhova. But feeling Pierre’s hands on her, breathing in his smell, and feeling his stubble brush against her collarbone felt intensely violating in a way that Hélène had not expected. Despite all of her trysts and her taboo relationship with Anatole, Hélène had never felt as dirty as she did in that moment.

 

She couldn’t stand to be in the same bed as him anymore, so she carefully extricated herself from his arms, slipping on a silken robe, and paced restlessly outside. She had felt a wave of nausea hit her, and ran outside to the garden where she vomited in the snow. Distantly coming back to herself, she had absently wondered what ever happened to the women like her: the girls who weren’t in the stories, who didn’t think that their husbands were strong and noble and handsome. Leaning her head back into the wall of the house a little too hard, she laughed bitterly, almost hysterically, before bursting into gasping tears that made it hard to breathe. Why was it, she wondered absently, that rapists were executed, but husbands were loved? She had accepted Pierre’s hand, fought tooth and nail for it with every high pitched titter and carefully orchestrated display of clandestine affection, but that had not ever meant that she wanted it. She had done it because it was an expectation and an obligation. Her birthright, as a rich, well brought up woman, was to find a husband who would improve, or at the very least, not diminish her family’s prospects.

 

 

_“He’s such a buffoon”, she griped, taking a swig of vodka. The alcohol burned her throat and nose, but in the moment, she couldn’t care less._

_Dolokhov looked at her with as much sympathy as he was ever able to muster. “It could be worse.”_

_“How?”_

_“He won’t beat you”, Dolokhov said calmly. “He won’t watch your every move. Nothing really has to change except your name.”_

_Hélène sighed. If she had wanted sympathy, she thought irritably, she ought to have gone to someone who wouldn’t be so damnably set on making her impending marriage into a good thing. She was so damn tired of congratulations and women tittering at her about what to expect in her wedding bed, an abstract concept that Dolokhov was disconcertingly blasé about. “Easy for you to say”, she snapped. “You won’t have to sleep with him.”_

_Dolokhov had smirked, slipping down one strap of her slip in an unexpectedly gentle manner. “Nothing you haven’t done before, my dear.”_

_She tried a different tactic. “This will be hard for Anatole.”_

_“He’s an adult, he’ll be fine.”_  


_“He won’t and you know it.”_

_“When you talk to him, he will be, dorogaya.” Hélène said no more on the matter, allowing Dolokhov to pull her into his arms. He didn’t understand, but then again, how could she have expected him to?_

 

 

Hélène stood back up, noticing how the snow had permeated her slippers and robe, freezing her legs. They didn’t even hurt anymore; so much as they felt numb and disconnected from her body. She blinked slowly, impatiently brushing the tears from her eyes. No one was going to help her, because as far as they were concerned, she was fulfilling the expectations that had been set out for her. And she would live up to those expectations, dazzle Moscow, rule in her own right, and refuse to let this marriage ruin her. Pierre would never make her cry again.

 

No matter what her last name was now, she was a Kuragin through and through, and Kuragins did not weep.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The night at the club. Hélène and Dolokhov underestimate Pierre.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cw: there is canonical violence in this chapter, but nothing graphic! Some of the details of Hélène and Pierre's fight are drawn from the 2016 BBC show (which is amazing). 
> 
> Thank you for the kudos and comments! They honestly mean the world to me!

They were being far more reckless than normal, Hélène absently fretted. A wayward kiss or a hand resting on her lower back a second longer than appropriate was fine at the opera, where the lights were dim and the patrons were too distracted by their own posturing. But Dolokhov was being far more aggressive than normal at the club, pressing open-mouthed kisses against her throat and attempting to cajole her into returning to his run-down rooms. If she didn’t know better, she thought bitterly, she would assume he was performing for Pierre. She shook her head irritably. She had spent the night working Dolokhov up, craving the attention he was lavishing on her now, but how was she to have known that Anatole would invite her husband to come along as well? 

 

She moaned low in her throat when Dolokhov raised her wrist to his mouth and licked up the drops of vodka that had dripped on her skin from her overflowing glass. He chuckled in his throat, warm and filthy, pressing a gentle kiss into her palm before taking her fingers and sucking each one, one at a time, hot and wet and slow. “Do you want to give your husband a show, Yelenka?” he murmured. 

 

“Fedya…” she groaned. “Just get him drunk, we don’t need to do anything else.” 

 

Dolokhov smirked at her, running his fingers up her arm. “Come now Hélène, where’s your sense of adventure?” 

 

“Anywhere you’re not”, she muttered irritably, but she couldn’t quite find the edge in her voice that she had been searching for. 

 

“I don’t believe that”, Dolokhov said silkily, pressing her up against him so he could whisper in her ear. “I think that if I were to draw your skirts up right now, you’d be _dripping_ for me.” 

 

“Don’t be crude”, she said primly, although she did nothing to push him away. 

 

“I thought crude was the way you liked me, Countess”, he purred, nipping her earlobe. 

 

She braced her hands against his chest firmly, pushing him away. “We have an audience”, she reminded him, tilting her head towards Pierre.  

 

“Someone ought to inform your husband that eavesdropping is the height of rudeness”, Dolokhov replied blandly.  

 

“I’m not sure he’d agree with you on that point”, Hélène gestured to Dolokhov’s arms, which were still resting in a rather untoward position on her torso. 

 

“If he was really a man, he could come over and stop us”, Dolokhov growled. “You two are a pitiful match.” 

 

Hélène sighed. “I don’t disagree.” 

 

“What if we escaped for a few days?” Dolokhov murmured. “Tell him you’re visiting relatives, or don’t, he can’t stop you.” 

Hélène glared at him sharply. “You sound like Anatole.” 

 

 “Can you blame me?” He gently tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “You’re intoxicating.” 

 

“I think you’re intoxicat _ed_.” 

 

“Possibly”, he acquiesced, grinning lopsidedly at her. “Shall we get your husband intoxicated as well? It may well be the only way he can learn to appreciate a woman like you.” 

 

Hélène gave him a lazy smile. “I suppose you’ve had worse ideas”, she teased, looping her arm through his. 

 

He hadn’t. 

 

\--

 

“You’re sleeping with Fyodor Dolokhov”, Pierre said flatly. 

 

“Don’t be ridiculous”, Hélène snapped. “He’s nothing.” She saw a momentary flicker of doubt in Pierre’s eyes at the vehemence of her denial and she capitalized on it. “He’s _your_ friend, why is it my fault that he always sees fit to skulk around our house?” 

 

“I saw you at the club” Pierre muttered defiantly. 

 

“You were _drunk_ at the club”, Hélène reminded him calmly. 

 

“Do you love him?” Pierre asked angrily.

 

“Do you hear yourself?” Hélène hissed. “Of course not.” 

 

“You humiliated me”, Pierre said quietly. Hélène looked in his face pensively. She knew it better than many of the others in her life. The furrows in his brow were much deeper, and his beard was fuller, but otherwise it was exactly the same as when they had been married. She could read him so much better than he thought, and she could tell that he was genuinely devastated, although with how melancholic he was prone to being, it was possible that it wasn’t specific to their situation. She felt a quick pang of guilt; it seemed that he had only recently begun to realize how dismal their marriage was, but she quickly pushed that impulse aside. It was not her fault if Pierre chose to be willfully blind. It also wasn’t her fault that he had decided to _shoot_ someone she reminded herself, letting the rage wash over her. 

 

Pierre was searching her eyes too, probably trying to determine her thoughts. Finally he turned away, running a hand through his hair. “I don’t want to be married to you anymore.” 

 

“That makes two of us.” 

 

“Fine”, Pierre sighed, taking his glasses off and wiping them. “We’ll get a separation. I’ll go to Petersburg for a few days. I’ll expect you gone when I return.” 

 

“No.”  

 

“Excuse me?” Pierre asked incredulously. 

 

“I have done nothing wrong in this situation”, Hélène said tersely. “And I refuse to bear the burden of our marriage imploding alone while you run off to _Petersburg_.” 

 

Pierre chuckled mirthlessly. “You’re a great many things Hélène, but you are far from innocent.” 

 

“I have organized your household, kept our social engagements, and play-acted as your wife while you locked yourself in your rooms and drank. You _shot_ someone tonight.” 

 

“And as you’ve said, he means nothing to you”, Pierre said in a dangerously soft voice. 

 

“Irrelevant”, she snapped. 

 

“Hardly irrelevant, wife”, Pierre growled.  

 

“You cannot shoot every man who you imagine committed a slight against you _husband_ ”, Hélène said condescendingly. “There won’t be anyone left in Moscow.”

 

“Those are not my imagination Hélène”, Pierre snarled, gesturing to her neck.  Hélène instinctively clasped her hand to her throat, expecting to feel the familiar ache of a bruise there, but was met with nothing. Pierre sat back in his chair with an unreadable expression. “That’s what I thought”, he said dully. 

 

“Pierre”, Hélène began, both angry at being tricked and frightened about what he would do, “husband…” 

 

“Get out”, he said icily. 

 

This was not the Pierre she knew, who could be full of bluster, or quietly reflective. Her pulse was rapid-fire, everything in her telling her to escape, but she held her ground. Pierre was a big man, but he was toothless, mild. “No”, she distantly heard herself say. 

 

“Damn it Hélène, I mean it”, he snarled, standing at his desk. When he stood he easily towered over her. 

 

“Are you trying to frighten me?” she chuckled mirthlessly. “You would have had more luck before I knew what a weak, _useless_ man you are.”

 

Something new and unexpected flashed in Pierre’s eyes, something feral and unrestrained. “Get OUT!” he screamed.  Hélène stood still for a second, shocked, which only seemed to aggravate Pierre more. He wildly reached for the side table next to him, and threw it at her, missing only by a few feet. “I’ll kill you!” he cried, deranged. Hélène acted on impulse, gathering her skirts and sprinting for the front door, still hearing Pierre rage behind her. She did not stop running until she was far away, wandering the empty, frozen streets.  

 

\--

 

She ran to the only place she could think of in the moment, knocking impatiently and rapidly on Anatole’s door. A servant answered, visibly surprised to see Countess Bezukhova alone, shaking, still wearing her evening attire, but let her in without saying anything, scurrying off to collect Anatole.

 

“Damn it”, she heard him swear irritably. “Do you have any idea what _time_ it is?” 

 

“It’s your sister, Prince Anatole”, she heard someone say mutedly. 

 

She heard a flurry of activity and muttered curses, and then Anatole appeared, wearing a nightshirt and a dressing gown, his blond hair endearingly mussed. He raised his eyebrows at how haggard she must have appeared, and walked over to her, enveloping her in his arms. Hélène was grateful beyond words that he didn’t ask for specifics, clearly aware that something had distressed her. She buried her face in Anatole’s chest, and allowed herself to cry loud, wracking sobs that made her whole body shake. She hyperventilated, desperate for his familiar, comforting scent; that stupid cologne that he loved, leather, and something innocuously floral. 

 

He didn’t say anything at for a long while, just tangled a hand in her hair, and ran the other up her back in slow, soothing strokes. “Lena, are you alright?” he murmured. 

 

She paused to consider. She was unhurt, just exhausted, scared and shaken. But what did this mean for her, for the future? She couldn’t go back to Pierre, just as surely as she couldn’t avoid him forever. The world, she had found, was not kind to women whose husbands threw them out, even if they were still young and beautiful. Anatole caressed her hair softly, unsure how to talk to her. Hélène smiled despite herself; she was usually her brother’s protector, and she could tell he was uncomfortable with their sudden role reversal. She let herself have one final sniff, pulling back to wipe away the tears, putting on a smile. “I’m fine, dear brother.” 

 

“Did something happen with Pierre?” 

 

“Nothing happened, everything is fine.” 

 

Anatole looked unconvinced, but dropped the matter. “Would you like some tea?” he asked politely, almost formally. 

 

“Yes”, she replied mildly. “Tea would be lovely.” 

 

“Wonderful”, Anatole responded, with a facsimile of his typical cheer. “And then I really must hear what you’re going to say to Natalie tomorrow.” 

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Kuragins after the abduction.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last chapter! Thank you to everyone who commented, left kudos, or read this! It means so much to me, and I appreciate all of the support.

Anatole rested his head on her knees, heaving heavy sobs that made her heart contract just as much as they exasperated her. She and Dolokhov had _told_ him that this would happen, that he ought to fix his sights on literally anyone other than the little Rostov girl, but Anatole was nothing if not obstinate, like a stubborn child.

 

“Natalie…” Anatole whimpered.

 

“Shh” she hushed him softly. “You can’t think about that right now.”

 

“I need to speak to her”, Anatole said, starting to rise.

 

“No, you don’t”, Hélène said sternly. “You need to stay here where the Rostovs can’t skin you for trying to take advantage of their daughter.”

 

“What about Pierre?”

 

“Let me deal with him”, Hélène said with a forced calm. “Everything will be fine.”

 

Anatole looked inclined to argue for a moment before he caught her eye and nodded, burying his face in her lap again. They did not have to wait long before the front door burst open, and Pierre lumbered in, with a look of barely controlled rage contorting his features.

 

“Anatole”, he said firmly. “You and I need to speak.”

 

Anatole shot Hélène a beseeching look, and she gently pushed him off of her, picking her way gracefully down the stairs, and laying an uncustomarily tender hand on Pierre’s arm. “Darling”, she breathed. “Let’s all take a moment before we do anything rash.”

 

Pierre shook her off impatiently. “Go upstairs, Hélène. Now.”

 

She crossed her arms, glaring at him, all pretense of settling this diplomatically gone. “I don’t trust you alone with him.”

 

“This doesn’t concern you, wife” Pierre growled. “Please go upstairs before I have to ask you again.”

 

“You must be out of your mind if you think-“

 

“Yuri, the Countess is not feeling herself. Escort her to her rooms if you will.” Hélène shot Pierre a murderous glare before flicking her gaze to Anatole. They made eye contact for less than a heartbeat, but Pierre caught the concern in Hélène’s expression and Anatole’s slight nod.

 

The servant approached her and put his hand on her elbow, but she roughly jerked it away. “That won’t be necessary”, she said coolly, mustering all the frigid composure she could. She almost felt tempted, like a child, to stomp up the stairs, physicalizing her anger, but made herself slowly draw up the hem of her skirts, floating serenely up the stairs to her chambers as she had been taught. The next half an hour was one of the worst she could remember. There were crashes and raised voices, but nothing distinct enough for her to know what was happening. She tried, once, to leave and see what had happened, whether Anatole was all right, but found Yuri posted outside the door, ready to stop her. She paced restless, worrying the wedding band that she still wore for appearances between her fingers, until Pierre strode through the door, with an unmistakably grim look on his face.

 

 “What happened?” She asked anxiously. “Where’s Anatole?”  

 

“He’s leaving for Petersburg. He won’t be welcome under my roof again.”

 

Hélène snorted to hide the way her stomach dropped. “And how do you propose keeping him out of Moscow?” 

 

“He can come back to the city if he wishes. If he does, however, I’ll be sure to pass on my regards to Ilya Rostov and Andrey Bolkonsky. If he has a modicum of sense, he won’t be back.”

 

Hélène turned her face away, hating the heartbeat pounding in her ears, and the rapidly approaching feeling of being overwhelmed, something she was unused to. “When does he leave?” She asked in a tone that was desperately trying to approach neutral.

 

“Tomorrow morning.”

 

“So soon?” Pierre didn’t miss the frantic note that crept in her tone, even as she tried to ignore it herself.

 

“I’m doing him a kindness”, Pierre said with an odd brand of compassion. “He should not be here when the Rostovs and Bolkonskys become involved.”

 

“Will I not have a chance to say goodbye to him?” Hélène snapped.

 

Pierre hesitated. “That would not be a good idea. For either of you.” He flinched a little at the way that Hélène’s eyes closed briefly at that, the smallest admission of pain.   


“Whatever you need to tell yourself”, she muttered dully.

 

“He deserves worse”, Pierre said sharply. “He ruined that girl’s life, and I know you had a hand in this.”

 

“He’s an adult”, Hélène reminded him. “Not much of one, I’ll admit, but he’s long past listening to me if he doesn’t want to.”

 

“You helped him.”

 

“He’s my brother”, Hélène said plaintively. “What was I supposed to do?”

 

Pierre looked at her with something like disgust. “Natasha Rostova is eighteen. Almost a child.”

 

“Not enough of one to deter _you_ ”, Hélène said with a quiet menace. “I’ve heard the way you talk about her. Are you just jealous that Anatole took her first?” Pierre glared daggers at her, before taking a deep breath and visibly willing himself to calm down.

 

“You are still my wife”, Pierre said gruffly. “And I have no wish to shame you. But if you come anywhere near Natasha Rostova or try to go after Anatole, I will tell everyone you had an affair with him, I swear it.”

 

Hélène stared at him, unable, for once, to come up with a retort that could have silenced him. Instead, all she could do was watch mutely as he shook his head sadly, and walked out of the room, leaving her alone.

 

 --

 

“Hélène!” Anatole stage-whispered from her window ledge.

 

She startled, hurriedly pulling on a robe and walking to the window. “What are you doing here?” She hissed.

 

“Can you just let me in?” Despite the doubtless severity of the situation, Hélène couldn’t help but crack a small smile at the customary pique in Anatole’s tone, as familiar to her as her own breath.

 

“Fine”, she muttered. She half assisted, half pulled him through the window, both of them collapsing on the floor.

 

“I must commend your strength, dear sister”, Anatole said in a tone of affected laziness. “I’m sure they would find a place for you in the regiment.”

 

“You can’t stay here”, she said firmly, brushing a lock of his hair back. “Pierre will kill you if he sees you.”

 

“Yes, well coming from Pierre that’s hardly a fatal threat.”

 

“This is _serious_ Anatole. I’ve never seen him this angry.”

 

“Not even with the…?” Hélène looked away. In truth, Anatole’s rage when he had learned about the incident with the table had been almost as terrifying than Pierre’s. It had taken almost an hour of her explaining, rapid-fire, why challenging her husband to a duel would only complicate the situation while Dolokhov had restrained him.

 

“It’s worse”, she said quietly.

 

Anatole sighed, suddenly looking much younger than his twenty-two years. “I’ve really made a mess of things Lena”, he said softly.

 

Her heart splintered a little bit, as devastated for him as she was comforted that they were falling into their regular patterns. Anatole didn’t bruise easily; his naturally sunny disposition and relatively short attention span simply didn’t allow him to. But when he was upset he had always turned to her to comfort him. “You have”, she acquiesced, gently pulling him to her, and allowing his head to rest on her shoulder.

 

“I’m so sorry”, he said wretchedly, nosing into the crook of her neck like a child.

 

“Hush”, she murmured, stroking his hair. “It’ll be fine, you’ll be fine, we’ll write letters.”

 

“You’ll come visit me?” he asked worriedly.

 

Hélène’s hand paused in his hair. The temptation to lie, to sooth him and tell him that nothing really had to change, that she would see him as often as she could, was almost as overwhelming as the knowledge that she couldn’t. “Fedya will come visit you soon.”

 

“But will _you_?”

 

“I can’t Tolya” she whispered.

 

“Why not?” There was such painful innocence written on his face.

 

“Pierre”, she said hollowly. “He knows.”

 

“About?”

 

“About us.” Anatole’s face clouded over immediately. “He’ll tell everyone if we try to see each other again, he’ll ruin our lives-“

 

“Run away with me.”

 

“Are you mad?” Hélène snapped, shoving him away.

 

“No”, Anatole said petulantly. “Hiding what you mean to me has never made any sense whatsoever. Let’s leave tonight; we’ll a place in Budapest perhaps-”

 

“Like you tried to do with Natasha Rostova?” Hélène said icily.

 

“This is completely different.”

 

“It’s _not_ , Anatole. We have no plan, and no means to support ourselves. The only difference is that, unlike Natalie, I’m not naïve enough to think there’s a chance that this could work.”

 

Anatole glared at her for a moment before huffing a heavy sigh. “It’s not fair, dammit all”, he said angrily.

 

Hélène bit her lip. “I know.” She had always been aware that her understanding of their situation was more grounded in reality than Anatole’s. He had never let go of the blind optimism that defined so much of his personality, even though it so often ended up hurting him. She remembered how cheerful he was in the weeks leading up to her wedding, almost obliviously so. But when she had visited his house the day after she became Countess Bezukhova, every piece of furniture he owned had been thoroughly, systematically destroyed, and he was sitting in the middle of the rubble with bleeding hands and a far-away look in his eyes.

 

Anatole took her hand in his, delicately tracing the lines of her palm and playing absently with her fingers. Hélène couldn’t help but think, in moments like this, how very similar the two of them were. Dolokhov’s hands were large and rough, laced with intricate patterns of calluses. But Anatole’s were soft, with thin wrists and long tapered fingers, just like hers. He bent his head, kissing the inside of her wrist. He had shaved recently, there wasn’t any stubble stinging her skin.

 

“They can’t keep us apart forever”, he said finally. Hélène nodded silently.

 

“They’ve tried that already”, she said with an ironic half-smile. Anatole grimaced. Their father sending him away to school would have been intolerable enough had things not been so different upon his return. Seeing Hélène polished, gleaming and veneered had left an uncomfortable feeling in the pit of his stomach; only made worse by Vasili smiling at her proudly. _Your sister is only seventeen and already they’re calling her the queen of society._ How fortunate he was, he thought, that Hélène was far better at playing these roles than he was.

 

She drew away from him reluctantly, standing up, and leaning against the window. “You should go”, she murmured quietly.

 

“I know”, he said softly. “I’m not saying farewell.”

 

Hélène gave him a forced smile, running her thumb across his cheekbone. “Alright, no farewells.”

 

Anatole gave her a last long look, unusually somber, and scrambled out the window. She could hear the dull thump as he reached the ground and ran away into the night to prepare to leave Moscow.

 

Hélène sighed, turning back to the bed, and burying herself under the covers, trying to will herself to sleep. The humiliation of shedding tears like a child would be worth it for the few moments of meditative calm, the foggy haze where she could forget that it was quite possible that she wouldn’t see Anatole again. She wanted to scream until her voice was hoarse, clutch at her pillows until her fingers were stiff, and rub her eyes with the heels of her hands until she saw black spots in her vision. Anything would be better than this frigid numbness.

 

For the first time in her life, she wished she had tears to shed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for everyone who read this! This was one of my first multi-chapter works, and I'm so happy it was in this incredibly warm and supportive fandom!

**Author's Note:**

> Elements borrowed from the 2016 show, as well as from Comet, which was my main inspiration. If you want to talk w me about how sad you are that this beautiful show is closing before its time, hit me up on tumblr @penguinobserver


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